ave sacrificed her life for its sake. She knew that its
own parents cared nothing for it, except for the money it brought them
through her hands; and often wild plans would form in her poor tired
brain--plans of running away with it altogether from the roaring,
devouring city, to some sweet, humble country village, there to obtain
work and devote herself to making this little child happy. Poor Liz!
Poor, bewildered, heart-broken Liz! Ignorant London heathen as she was,
there was one fragrant flower blossoming in the desert of her soiled
and wasted existence--the flower of a pure and guileless love for one
of those "little ones," of whom it hath been said by an all-pitying
Divinity unknown to her, "Suffer them to come unto Me, and forbid them
not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

The dreary winter days crept on apace, and, as they drew near Christmas,
dwellers in the streets leading off the Strand grew accustomed of
nights to hear the plaintive voice of a woman, singing in a peculiarly
thrilling and pathetic manner some of the old songs and ballads familiar
and dear to the heart of every Englishman--"The Banks of Allan Water,"
"The Bailiff's Daughter," "Sally in our Alley," "The Last Rose of
Summer." All these well-loved ditties she sang one after the other, and,
though her notes were neither fresh nor powerful, they were true and
often tender, more particularly in the hackneyed, but still captivating,
melody of "Home, Sweet Home." Windows were opened, and pennies freely
showered on the street vocalist, who was accompanied in all her
wanderings by a fragile infant, which she seemed to carry with especial
care and tenderness. Sometimes, too, in the bleak afternoons, she would
be seen wending her way through mud and mire, setting her weary face
against the bitter east wind, and patiently singing on; and motherly
women, coming from the gay shops and stores, where they had been
purchasing Christmas toys for their own children, would often stop to
look at the baby's pinched, white features with pity, and would say,
while giving their spare pennies, "Poor little thing! Is it not very
ill?" And Liz, her heart freezing with sudden terror, would exclaim,
hurriedly, "Oh, no, no! It is always pale; it is just a little bit weak,
that's all!" And the kindly questioners, touched by the large despair
of her dark eyes, would pass on and say no more. And Christmas came--the
birthday of the Child Christ--a feast the sacred meaning o